One-Click Buy: April Harlequin Blaze

by Kathleen O'Reilly

  Had that not been the right thing to say?

  “Or not,” she quickly slipped in.

  He caught the snap to her tone and glanced over. His reluctant expression prompted her to dress even faster. He had Dear Jane written all over his face, and if she was going to hear that the best sex of her life had been a mistake, she would at least do it clothed.

  “Look, Carly,” he started, but she held up a hand, not interested in hearing the rest. Just the tone of those two words said it all. It was the start of a speech about what had just happened, how she shouldn’t misunderstand, how she shouldn’t read more into the situation than what it was, him being a guy like him and her a woman like her.

  No way would she listen to that.

  “Don’t wreck a great one-night stand,” she said. “I get it. I’m a big girl. Let’s just forget this happened and move on.”

  His eyes widened. “That’s not where I was going.”

  She hurriedly slipped her skirt up, but the hem got caught in her heel and she heard the dreaded sound of fabric tearing.

  Sex with her shoes on. Brilliant.

  “I’d definitely like more where that came from,” he went on as she pulled her heel from the hem and lifted her skirt to her waist. “We just need to keep this under wraps is all.”

  She stopped and stared. “What do you think I’m going to do—walk out of this room and tell everyone we just had sex?”

  He shrugged as though the answer to that question might actually have been yes.

  Her jaw dropped. “You really think I’d do that.”

  His jaw bobbed. “No…Yes…I mean, you get around.”

  She shot out a squeak. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He stared at the floor and took a long breath, and that’s when Carly stopped looking. Instead she rushed to throw together the last of her clothing before she slapped him.

  “Not what it sounded like,” he said. “I mean, you’ve got a lot of friends here, and I think it would be best if this didn’t get spread around the office.”

  Smoothing her hands over her skirt, then going to work on her hair, she held back the flames and tried to speak calmly.

  It didn’t work.

  “Trust me—I won’t be telling anyone I had sex with you.”

  Now it was his turn to gape. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly how it sounded,” she snapped. “You don’t have to worry about this happening again or anyone hearing about the one time it did.” Moving to the door, she flipped open the dead bolt and reached for the handle. “As far as I’m concerned, this is already forgotten.”

  And with that, she stormed out the door.

  8

  MATT SLID ON HIS batting helmet, tightened the gloves at his wrists and flicked on the pitching machine before grasping his favorite Louisville Slugger tightly around the grip. With his eye on the machine, the distant sounds around him began to fade. Besides the thwoop-thwoop of the pitches in the neighboring cages, there was the tinny smack of a ball making contact with an aluminum bat, the constant creak of the old wood floor in the two-story warehouse and the low murmur of conversation. The sounds were old and familiar to him, comforting as a lullaby in this place that was more a home to him than the tiny boathouse he’d grown up in.

  The light on the machine turned from red to yellow, and he shifted his weight to his back leg, holding the bat well over his shoulder as he waited for the pitch.

  It came high and outside for a swing and a miss.

  He curled his lip, tapped the bat on home plate, then readied his stance for the next pitch. The scents of rubber, oil and dust filled his nostrils, and he took them in, soaking them up like a stiff shot of whiskey to calm his nerves. He’d been hanging out at the Dugout since he was old enough to make the two-mile ride on his bicycle from home. More times than he could count he’d gotten in trouble for staying here past dark, time getting away from him as he chugged back Dr Peppers and spilled his troubles to Stuey Callebrew, the Dugout’s owner.

  Since Matt was about seven, Stuey had been more of a father to him than his own dad after Matt’s parents divorced and Jeff Jacobs turned his attention to his new wife and family. Matt would be a liar if he said Stu had been an adequate stand-in for his own dad. There hadn’t been much Stu could do to take away the sting of being tossed out like yesterday’s news. But over the years Matt had grown to love him and had begun to consider this place his real home.

  The next pitch came tight inside, and Matt ducked and turned out of habit, nearly spinning himself off his heels.

  Someday Matt was going to buy Stu a new set of machines.

  The next two pitches were high and wide, and Matt hadn’t done more than foul-tip either one. Frustration welled in his gut. He wanted the rush, the warmth of victory when ball meets bat square in the sweet spot and goes sailing over that imaginary outfield wall. Sex was barely better than the feel of standing at home plate after hearing that special smack only home-run balls made. Not to mention the crowd holding a collective breath as they all strained to get a glimpse of a shot destined for the center-field bleachers.

  It was in those moments that Matt had won. He could do more than good enough, he’d be the best. No one could tell him how to make that shot any better because nothing was ever better than a home-run ball.

  The pitch came in over the top, and Matt tipped it into the netting, slamming his bat on home plate for not taking good advantage of a well-pitched baseball.

  “Lady trouble, huh?” Stu Callebrew spoke with a drawl even though he was born and raised in Modesto.

  Matt stepped back in the batter’s box and prepared for the pitch. “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re reaching. You always reach when the ladies get you down. You pull the ball left when your mother drives you crazy. You swing at the inside when it’s work. And when things are going well, I don’t see you at all.”

  Matt blinked, and the ball sped by, hitting the chest-high backstop with a pop. “You think you know me that well?”

  Stu slipped his fingers through the chain-link fence and smiled, his sun-worn face wrinkling up at the corners of his eyes and making ripples in his forehead. “Am I wrong?”

  No, Stu wasn’t wrong. When it came to Matt, Stu was always on the money. But Matt wasn’t in the mood to spill his guts today. After all, what would he say?

  Well, you see, Stu, I’ve got this beautiful woman I’ve been eyeing for two years now. Yesterday I got the chance to screw her silly in the project room at the office. She was every man’s fantasy and the best sex I’ve had since I can remember. Problem is, the minute it was over, I opened my mouth, said the wrong thing—and now she won’t talk to me.

  Oh, yeah, and we’re supposed to be teaming up on a project together, so I’ve messed up my career in the process, as well.

  Another day, another episode in the life of Matt Michael Jacobs, world’s best screwup.

  The pitch came up fast, and Matt stifled the impulse to swing, wanting to prove Stu wrong about his reaching theory. But when the next one came out in the same spot, he caught himself swinging.

  And Stu threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  “Glad I can entertain you,” Matt grumbled, then winced at the tone, knowing what he’d get in response.

  “Feeling sorry for ourselves today, are we?”

  “I’m not. I can’t speak for you,” he lied.

  The pitch came in low and straight, and Matt hit a high blooper back to the machine.

  He knew better than to let on that he had lost himself in pity. Stu had started his career as a coach at Fresno before opening up the Dugout in Marin, and the one thing he’d never put up with was a player feeling sorry for himself. Stu knew that if he allowed one player to whine, it would run through the club like a bad epidemic. Pity was for losers, he’d say, and he’d meant it. He hadn’t even allowed Matt to lick his wounds when his father had skipped his college graduation or his Anaheim draft par
ty or any of the other important events in his life because his stepmother, Barbara, wouldn’t allow it. Barbara was needy and insecure, never getting over the fact that she hadn’t given Jeff Jacobs his firstborn child. She’d spent the bulk of their marriage trying to make him forget Matt existed, and for the most part she’d succeeded.

  Back when Matt was a scrappy kid taking his rejection out on the world, Stu had had more patience, but the older Matt got, the less Stu accepted Matt’s self-defeating attitude. Matt supposed Stu was the reason he’d made as much of his life as he had. Someone had to draw the line and set boundaries. God knows his mother certainly hadn’t, the woman so embittered by her ex, she’d never given Matt so much as a stern word. But on days like today Matt just wanted to be left alone with his misery and he was quickly beginning to realize seeking solace in the Dugout might have been a bad idea.

  “Well, I’m doing good today,” Stu said, sarcastically adding, “Thanks for asking.”

  The ball came in fast and straight, and Matt stepped out of the batter’s box, letting it smack into the backstop right about at Stu’s knees. The man pulled his hands from the fence in time to avoid getting pinched.

  “Oh, sorry about that.” Matt grinned.

  “You’re a sorry one all right.”

  The easy banter between the two was already lifting Matt’s mood. He’d wanted to stop thinking about Carly, mostly because he’d accepted the fact there was nothing he could do about the situation he’d created. Despite his attempt at smoothing things over between them, she’d given him the cold shoulder all day, staying businesslike and professional but not gracing him with any pleasantries. She’d drawn a symbolic circle around herself and ordered him not to cross it, and he didn’t need to hear the words to get the hint. What they’d had was a one-time incident that wouldn’t be repeated, and just as she’d said when she left the lab the day before, she’d moved on and forgotten about it.

  Now all Matt had to do was the same.

  Easier said than done.

  “So are you going to tell me her name?” Stu asked.

  He absently replied, “Carly,” before realizing Stu had tricked him into talking.

  “She must be special if she’s brought you here. How come I haven’t met her?”

  “She’s just a woman I work with.”

  “Hmm. But you’re reaching wide right, which means the problem’s more pleasure than business.”

  “It’s both,” he said, popping another high fly. Easy out.

  “That explains why you can’t hit anything today.”

  Against his will, a smile broke one corner of Matt’s mouth. Damn, he loved Stu. The man always knew how to get him out of a funk, mostly by not putting up with any BS. If it was sympathy, hand-holding and coddling Matt wanted, he could seek out his mother, but he’d grown up enough these last few years to learn the poor-me attitude got him nothing more than a pink slip and a one-way plane ticket home. This time around, he was going to the Stu Callebrew school of wisdom, where to get ahead in life you worked hard, sucked it up and let your mistakes be a lesson, not an excuse.

  And the lesson he’d learned this time around was to stop thinking he and Carly could someday see eye to eye and to never, ever play with fire. At least where beautiful women were concerned.

  “It’s nothing I can’t get over,” Matt said, and it was true. Having sex with Carly had been high on his list of stupid moves, but it didn’t look as though she intended to destroy his life over it. Now he just needed to forget their encounter and get back to business—a feat not easy but certainly manageable. All he had to do was somehow erase the taste of her from his lips or her scent from his nostrils or the memory of her body in his arms and around his cock or the sound of her moans—

  How much did a good lobotomy cost these days? he wondered.

  “Ouch,” Stu said. “That sounds like you’re the one who got turned down.”

  “Open one mouth, insert one pair of size-thirteen cleats.” Readying himself for the pitch, he shifted his weight and stood focused.

  And the fastball sailed past him.

  He stepped out of the box and kicked the inside of his sneaker with the tip of his bat. “Every time I’m around this woman I can’t seem to say the right thing. This last time it got me in more trouble than usual, but she seems to be moving past it. Now I’ve just got to do the same.”

  Stu responded with a wide mouse-eating grin, and Matt frowned. “I’m glad you find that amusing.”

  “I’m glad you’ve finally found someone special.”

  Matt blinked. “I must have been talking to your bum ear, Stu. The woman hates me. And if she wasn’t so damned sexy, I’d hate her, too.”

  It was a bald-faced lie, but Matt said it anyway. Truth was, he admired the hell out of Carly. She had that spark of something special that made people love her, and it wasn’t just the favors she did. It was something magical, something completely elusive to a guy like Matt, who always had to work hard to keep a friend and even then failed more often than he succeeded. Matt would do anything for anyone who asked him, too, but people rarely asked. It was as if he walked around with Leave me alone tattooed on his forehead, and for the life of him he didn’t know how he got it or how to make it go away. It was just there, part of his being, his soul.

  The next ball came in square, and he tipped it back to the machine, not even really trying anymore. Being honest with himself, he hadn’t come here looking for the thrill of a solid shot, he’d come here to talk to Stu, and this was the way they’d always communicated. Stu wasn’t his dad, so Matt had never felt right about coming up and flat-out asking for his ear, but Stu knew Matt better than anyone. He read the signs and always came around when Matt needed to talk. It was like a little dance. When Matt needed a friend, he’d show up at the cages and start swinging a bat until Stu got him talking about his troubles. And like the father-friend he was, Stu always made things better.

  “Well, I know not to try and teach you anything about women, what with me and Leonora married thirty-seven years and you so successful with your love life.”

  Matt smirked at the slam.

  “I just happen to think hate’s a pretty strong word,” Stu added. “And when people start using strong words, it’s usually because there’s some strong feelings underneath.”

  “Sure, like animosity, ire, frustration, competition. We’ve got all that going on.” He twirled the bat in a circle and stepped out of the box. “In fact, now that you’ve made me think about it, we’re practically perfect for each other.”

  Stu laughed and Matt smiled as he stepped in for the pitch. This time he hit it square into the painted mural of an outfield filled with fans Stu had commissioned about a dozen years ago. Netting kept the balls from actually smacking into it, but the sentiment was the same. You hit the ball into the far wall net and you’d just hit a home run.

  “See? You start telling the truth and things shift in your favor,” Stu pointed out.

  Matt hit three more like it, not really wanting Stu to be right but enjoying it nonetheless. This was exactly what he’d needed—to get out of the condo, blow off some steam and go back to the office tomorrow with a clear head and a new attitude. He’d accomplished the first three and he knew before he left here tonight he’d accomplish the last, as well.

  “Hey, while you’re here, I’ve got something I want you to do for me,” Stu said.

  “Shoot.”

  “I got a kid I want you to work with. He could use some help with his swing.”

  Matt stepped away from the plate and flicked off the machine. He found it odd Stu was asking him to help with the kids. Back in high school, he’d liked working with them, remembering the days when he was a scrawny tyke himself and one of the older players paid him extra attention. Given his natural talent with a baseball, he’d gotten a lot of that, and it had become somewhat of a rite of passage to take the younger kids under his wing when he was in the mood and had the time. A side of him had thought S
tu might ask him to help out now that he’d moved back to town, and when he hadn’t, Matt had never asked why.

  He’d been afraid of the answer.

  He’d already been told by the Scottsdale Sidewinders he wasn’t good enough to move up from the Nationals’ AA team, and his agent had been told the same by a half dozen more teams. When he’d come home defeated, he hadn’t wanted to hear that Stu thought he wasn’t good enough to work with the kids anymore, either, even though he’d never truly believed it. But given the gravity of his disappointment back then, he hadn’t been able to risk any more knocks, so he simply never went there.

  But he could go there now.

  “I thought you were through asking me to coach,” he commented.

  Stu hung his hands on the fence and smiled. “No one’s ever through coaching, son. Sometimes you need to take a break, though.”

  “And when I came home, you felt I needed a break?”

  Stu’s tired eyes looked at Matt with all seriousness. “Sometimes when a man takes a hit, the best thing is to get right back on the horse. Other times it’s best to stay away for a while.” Nodding, he added, “You needed to step away for a while.”

  “So why the turnaround now?”

  Stu shrugged and cocked his head. “I think you’re ready.”

  Matt twirled the bat in his hand, a nervous habit he’d had since he was a kid. He wasn’t sure what to think of Stu’s words, but in his maturity he’d learned that Stu was right more times than he was wrong. In fact, Matt couldn’t ever remember Stu being wrong about anything.

  “This kid,” Stu said. “He’s cocky.”

  Matt raised a brow. “So you instantly thought of me.”

  “Yep. He also thinks I’m too old to know anything about baseball. He’ll probably think you’re too old, too. But he’s got good focus and good instincts. He just has some mechanical problems, and if he’d get over that hump of doing something that doesn’t feel natural for a minute, we could retrain his bad habits.”